


You're Mine, Valentine

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (At least I think it is), Blood and Gore, Courtship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Peter's a creep, Psychopaths In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Peter decides to court Stiles, and does so by leaving him hearts.</p><p>Bloody ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Mine, Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a spontaneous Valentine fic that I had no intentions of writing,
> 
> Which is why its hours late for the actual holiday. fml

He’s not exactly sure what rouses him from his slumber; all he knows is that he’s suddenly awake, in the middle of the night, with a slow prickling _feeling_ on the back of his neck.

It’s a shame, Stiles thinks, because he’d just _finally_ gotten to sleep after hours of tossing and turning; feeling too wired to rest, but too tired to leave bed.

He opens his eyes and a sharp huff of air leaves his nostrils, a scowl on his face. He turns on his side, thinking the change of position would make him feel comfortable enough to sleep ag–

Nope.

He thought wrong.

In a vain attempt, he hastily rolls to his opposite side, facing the wall; feigning his ignorance of the sudden, unwelcomed presence in his room. It earns him a slick chuckle.

The prickling feeling on Stiles’ neck increases tenfold.

“No,” he groans out, hoping that if he voices his displeasure enough, he’d be left alone. But he has no such luck.

“Stiles,” the voice is smooth, tone soft, almost soothing if it weren’t for the clear command underneath it all.

With clenched teeth, Stiles turns back, fixing the unwelcomed guest with a glare Derek would be proud of.  Just because he’s obeying, doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“You mind telling me why you’re here at,” Stiles takes the moment to glance at the alarm clock on his desk, “three in the fucking morning, Peter, really?”

 It’s safe to say Stiles is beyond pissed, but the man only makes a clicking noise with his tongue.

“Language,” he says distantly; as if he didn’t really care about Stiles’ foul mouth and was just admonishing him out of some sort of reflex.

But other than that, the man goes silent, watching Stiles with an unblinking, focused gaze.  It’s dark in the room; it would be pitch black if it weren’t for the healthy stream of light coming through the – now open, damn it, Peter – window from the moon. There are no doubts that Peter can see Stiles clearly though; werewolf eyesight is far more superior to a human’s.  Even through the darkness, however, Stiles can see the way Peter’s eyes glow just a bit more _blue_ than normal, revealing his true nature behind the human façade.

Not that Peter ever tried to hide the fact that he wasn’t human around Stiles.

There was always a hint of fang when Peter smiled too widely at him, a prick of claws at the nape of his neck if he got too saucy with Peter, _the constant appearing out of nowhere_.

Which got old after the first time, really.

Stiles begrudgingly used his elbows to push himself up slowly into a sitting position; it made him feel better to not be completely helpless by lying down in the company of a dangerous predator. (Shut up, he knows he’d be fucked anyway if he was attacked, lying down or not. _He knows_.)

Peter’s eyes track his movement; they sweep down when the quilt falls off his shoulder, taking in the sight of Stiles’ thin, holey T-shirt – compared to all the layers he usually dons, Stiles was almost naked.

More than a little self-conscious, Stiles resists the urge to cover himself back up and clenches his jaw. When he opens his mouth to demand why Peter’s there for the second time, Peter gets up from his seat in Stiles’ computer chair and walks closer so that his legs hit the edge of Stiles’ bed. He grabs the boy’s chin, like he did in the lacrosse field all that time ago, and Stiles freezes, remembering the blood spilled that night, the way Peter had pulled him up from his knees and how there were only mere inches separating them while Lydia was bleeding out on the ground below.

Peter’s hand is warm, and most importantly wet – and kind of sticky if Stiles thinks about it. His thumb brushes over Stiles’ cheek once, twice before he slides his hand down the boy’s neck.  Underneath his fingertips Stiles’ pulse beats rapidly, and he savors the scent of Stiles’ fear and confusion and the ever present arousal.

Before Stiles catches himself and snatches his face away, Peter lets go and places a box on his lap. Stiles immediately looks down, curious. It’s not heavy but there’s a certain weight to it on his lap, and Peter can almost _feel_ the confusion coming off Stiles in tendrils.

“What –“ Stiles starts, but is stopped by soft lips pressing to his, soft at first, but then getting progressively more hungry; and Stiles is stunned yet again, this time long enough for Peter to smirk down at him and slink back out the window, closing it behind him with a mocking _thud_.

Stiles _leaps_ out of the bed, box in hand, and flicks on the lights. His curiosity is too piqued for him to think about the kiss right now, what it could possibly mean – other than the fact that Peter is an even bigger creep than he originally thought – or even _why._

The box is simple, medium sized, opaque black, plastic; nothing special. It looks like Tupperware container, actually.

Stiles gets his hands on the lid and pulls, and he’s –

He’s _sick. So fucking sick._

Stiles gags upon seeing a heart that looks to be just freshly ripped out of something’s chest, sitting in a pool of its blood.

He runs to the bathroom and dry heaves over the sink, leaving the box open on his desk. When he looks up into the mirror, he sees that half his face and neck is streaked in blood, painted in the strokes of Peter’s fingers.

There’s no way he’s going back to sleep now.

 

\---

 

He doesn’t go back to sleep, doesn’t even try.

Instead he silently freaks out and prays to whatever’s out there that his father does not wake up as he races to dispose the heart far out behind the trees of his backyard and dump the blood in the earth. He races back inside to bleach the container to high hell and his heart doesn’t stop pounding all the while. After bleaching it for the third time, he decides to soak it once more, just to be sure. His mind generates idea after idea for reasons why Peter would give him a bloody heart, and all of them say it’s clearly a threat.

Peter wants Stiles to stay away from the pack and its business for whatever reason; else he’ll rip his heart out. That has to be it.

So he does; not that he’s planning to stay away forever. Just long enough to come up with a plan. It’s not like the pack is on high alert or anything, so Stiles considers it a little vacation, from the Hales at least. He’ll see the rest of them at school and say his father wanted him home more for the time being if they ask why he’s been missing the pack meetings. And it works; there are no more threats on his life, and everything is peachy-keen.

Until he gets another heart.

This one is significantly smaller than the first – he hopes the first wasn’t human, but this one _definitely_ wasn’t.

Not that that doesn’t make it any less disturbing.

Heart pumping, Stiles doesn’t bother to get rid of it just yet. He carries it on his way to the Jeep, glad that his father was called in for work for the day – something about hunters hunting out of season. He sets the container on the back seat and hauls ass to Derek’s new place, hoping Peter isn’t there waiting. When he arrives and Derek is already outside, Stiles lets out a hysterical whoop and gets out of the car, Peter’s ‘gift’ in tow.

Stiles has never been happier to see Derek’s scowling face than now, even when the first thing he’s greeted with is,

“Where the hell have you been for the past couple of weeks?”

“You’re uncle’s trying to kill me,” Stiles blurts out, and if it’s possible, Derek’s scowl deepens even more.

“What?” he asks, attention fully on Stiles, “Did he hurt you?”

“No, not really,” Stiles screws his face up, “But he keeps giving me hearts, so I’m sure he wants to.”

Derek’s scowl quickly turns into a look of surprise; his mouth opens and then closes, as if he’s processing what to say next. He does it again, blinking rapidly, until he finally recovers and says,

“He…what?”

Exasperated, Stiles shoves the container at Derek’s chest, not caring if some blood spilled out of the loosely closed lid onto the man’s shirt; he was being purposely obtuse, Stiles was sure. Upon opening the lid, Derek looks…uncomfortable, but not as disturbed as he should be, Stiles thinks.

“What the hell is going on, Derek?”

But the other man is silent; face screwed up in a cringe as his eyes dart from Stiles to the heart and back.

“Derek,” Stiles, presses, “I need you to use those words, buddy. I know you’re not as laconic as you’d like people to think you are.”

He eyes the heart again and purses his lips, shifting awkwardly.

“Derek!” Stiles yells, about two seconds away from grabbing the werewolf a thousand times stronger than he is and giving him a healthy shake. Derek speaks before Stiles can get his hands on him, however, and what comes out of his mouth dumbfounds the teen, for a lack of a better word,

“He’s…he’s providing for you, I think.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Stiles yells,

“He’s courting you.”

Stiles stops talking immediately, jaw slack and eyes almost bugging out of his head.

“What?” he says weakly, then louder, “With _hearts?_ And _blood?_ How is that–“

“Maybe he’s trying to tell you his heart is bleeding for you.”

Derek shrugs his shoulders a little, tone dry, with his face still in a slight cringe.

Stiles’ nostrils flare.

“ _Really,_ Derek?” he nearly screeches, “You’re choosing _now_ to make jokes? And that didn’t even make sense!”

 “Look –Just,” Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes as if it’ll make it all go away, “don’t accept any more gifts from him. Make a show of rejecting them.”

“I would but he always disappears before I can!” Stiles flails his arms to somehow emphasis his point, “Can’t you just tell him to stop?”

Derek shifts on his feet, uncomfortable still, “I would, but I don’t really know where he is.”

He pats Stiles once, awkwardly and then recedes into the shadows like he’s wont to do. Stiles narrows his eyes as his jaw drops in disbelief.

“Really, Derek? You’re just going to fucking disappear?” he yells, but gets no response.

_Fucking werewolves._

The next time Stiles gets a box, he’s determined to throw it away immediately, but curiosity gets the better of him.

What kind of heart would it be this time? A small one? A big one?

Perhaps it’s a finger instead of a heart. He opens the lid and its – it’s not a heart, but a watch. A really nice one.

Pure silver, with designs that look eerily similar to some runes Stiles has seen in one of Deaton’s grimoires.

He hears Derek’s voice in his head, telling him to throw it away and thinks _fuck that_ , because the watch he had was broken – smashed in by a creature called a wendigo (yeah, apparently werewolves aren’t the only things that exist) – and, well, _it’s a really nice watch._

It’s not like Peter will see him wearing it anyway if he’s technically never around to see.

 

\---

 

Some time passes, and with that time comes more containers.

Stiles wonders sometimes if he bought them in bulk, or if he keeps buying them one by one – and if so, how the hell does that not look suspicious?

Peter gets creative the next few times, though, and starts leaving whole animals in wooden boxes; squirrels, birds, and once, not in a box, but in his back yard, a deer.

Stiles didn’t know what he should have been more impressed by; the size of the game or the color of red on his dad’s face when he figured someone was trying to pull a fairly disturbing prank on them.

Still, though, Peter doesn’t once show his face to Stiles like he did the first night.

Which is also a relief, because Stiles _really_ didn’t fucking appreciate having his face used as a canvas for finger painting – with blood as the paint.

But Stiles gets used to it, as messed up as that sounds.

Sometimes he considers using the mountain ash Deaton gave him to keep Peter away, but he figures the man would probably find a way to get passed it. He’s relentless like that. And a psycho, so Stiles doesn’t want to do anything to make Peter vindictive. So Stiles just deals with it.

He goes about his day, he hangs out with Scott, visits his father at his job, frequents the bookstore – and it’s at the book store that he meets a girl.

“Samantha,” she says her name is, with a smile as perfect as Lydia’s.

She’s beautiful and funny, and well, she’s _into him._

So when she asks him out one night by his locker in the hallway at school, he says yes, he’d be stupid not to.

Scott is a few feet behind her the whole time, waggling his eyebrows and smiling goofily at him, and as soon as she leaves he comes rushing over to give Stiles a crushing bro-hug. The best kind there is, really.

“I’m so happy for you, dude,” Scott says, keeping Stiles in a head lock and ruffling his hair like the goddamn loveable jerk he was, “You finally get to have a nice, _normal_ teenage life, and go out and have fun like you deserve.”

Stiles laughs, trying to get out of Scott’s firm grip.

Normal. _Right._

Receiving dead things in boxes from a werewolf burn victim gone psycho for the past few weeks was totally normal – he’s glad he didn’t tell Scott about it though. They both need a break from drama, and Peter isn’t exactly doing anything to threaten Stiles apparently. So everything’s good, he guesses.

Normal. Stiles has to fight back a scoff as he finally breaks free from Scott’s werewolf strength.

Well, technically this is normal. For them at least.

That night he and Samantha go to the theatre to catch the new die hard movie, because apparently she’s an action film buff. A girl after his heart, really. After, they find a photo booth machine and take pictures, laughing and getting closer all the while. Then they eat ice cream, and Stiles drives her to her house, kisses her on the cheek and leaves to go home.

It was a fun night, one of the best he’s ever had, and when Scott calls him to ask how it went, he spills all of the details until he’s exhausted enough to fall on his pillow and sleep on the spot.

When he wakes up there’s another box.

He rolls his eyes and opens the lid, and swallows hard. It’s not an animal, or a watch or a heart or anything like that.

Or, well, technically it _is_ a heart, only it’s a cutout of one, using one of the photos he and Samantha took at the photo booth. There’s a small knife poking through the picture, where she is.

Stiles gets the message.

When Samantha calls him later on he doesn’t answer; and he doesn’t answer the next few times either until she finally gives up.

When Scott asks him what the hell is wrong with him, Stiles shrugs and says,

“It’s for the best,” and shakes away the prickling feeling on his neck.

\---

 

Peter shows up a few days after, when Stiles walks into his room from school, occupying the computer chair like the night this whole _thing_ started, donning a smug smile on his face.

Stiles swears all he sees is red at the moment.

He’s yelling at Peter before he knows it, throwing curses at him until Peter grabs his face, and _kisses_ him again. Lips as hot and soft as ever.

So of course Stiles punches him in the face, and Peter – the bastard – just _laughs_ at him, and it’s not a mocking one either. It’s like he’s genuinely happy that Stiles just _punched him in the face._ Which only makes Stiles angrier. But before he can strike out again, Peter grabs his fists, kisses them, and leans in to take a deep whiff of the crook of Stiles’ neck.  And just like that he’s gone again, leaving Stiles red in the face and angry and more than a little flustered.

 

\---

 

There’s another box the next day; it’s red and looks like it’s made of glass, but Stiles is too drained to open it. He keeps it on his desk, and leaves the house – which in hindsight isn’t very smart since his father’s a sheriff and might walk in his room and see that his son is keeping a box with a heart inside.

 _That_ would certainly shake things up between them.

But Stiles doesn’t think about it too much, he needs some good caffeine in his system, so off to the coffeehouse he goes since he’s put a ban on caffeine in his father’s diet. (He wonders how long that will last until his dad finally snaps, however.)

He breathes a sigh of relief as he finally gets there, but upon entering he immediately walks into a person, and he’s about to apologize, cursing his exhaustion, before he realizes it’s Peter. He narrows his eyes, but Peter only smiles at him, a gentle one, and hands him a cup.

Too tired to care that he’s accepting a drink from a psychotic werewolf with an infatuation with teenagers; he takes a sip and immediately raises his eyebrows in surprise.

It’s just the way he likes his coffee; black, two sugars.

“I’ve no idea how you drink that swill,” Peter says, scrunching his nose, “I prefer something sweeter.”  He takes a sip of what looks to be a caramel macchiato to demonstrate his point.

And then he leans over, and pecks Stiles on the cheek, like they’re not in public and he’s not too old to be flirting with the sheriff’s underaged son.

“Why?” Stiles asks, because he just has to know, _why him?_ Why not someone _else_?

“Because you’re mine,” Peter says simply, and almost as an afterthought adds, “Happy Valentine’s day.”

He saunters out of the room then, leaving Stiles to ponder the statement.

Stiles just sort of shakes himself a little, huffs out a laugh at how _sure_ Peter sounded, and finishes his drink in relative peace.

But Stiles should’ve known that peace doesn’t stay for people like him.

That night, Derek knocks on his window. With a huff, Stiles drags himself away from having a staring contest with Peter’s box. He still hasn’t opened it yet.

“Yes, oh Alpha, my Alpha?” Stiles drawls; to which Derek responds by palming Stiles’ face in a half-hearted attempt to suffocate him.

“We’ve got an Amarok,” Derek grouses, clearly one hundred thousand percent done with the world.

Stiles can sympathize.

Amaroks aren’t necessarily the most fun things to fight against. They’re like werewolves, only a million times more powerful, and even doubly viscous and blood thirsty. They’re more wolf than human, and perhaps not even that. The Inuit peoples used to liken them to _gods_ at one point.

Like, seriously? Can’t they ever get unicorns or flower sprites to deal with?

“Ugh, and you need me, why? I’m not agreeing to being used as bait again after last time.”

“That was _your_ idea, idiot,” Derek sneers, “And you’re the only one who can handle mountain ash extensively, remember? With your stupid sparkly magic?”

Stiles preens a little bit at that, despite Derek’s attempt at emasculating his abilities. It’s as big of a compliment he’s ever going to get from the alpha. He stops when Derek starts getting his patented bitchface number three, grabs his mountain ash and wolfs bane soaked bat, and follows the alpha out into the night to meet up with the rest of the pack.

The meeting is at the old Hale house, and it takes everything Stiles has to focus on what’s being said rather than pay attention to how Peter is bumping up next to his body. When he glances at the man, though, Peter is the epitome of a saint – looking innocent and staring straight forward at whoever’s speaking. But when Stiles – not subtlety – stomps on his foot, Peter grins and leans on him some more. Derek glares at the two of them from his corner of doom and gloom while the others steal weirded out glances at them. At one point Lydia bluntly tells them to get a room, while Scott face twisted into a horrified expression. Isaac keeps glancing between the two of them, utterly confused while Boyd just looks vaguely amused at it all.

Eventually they come up with a plan.

Derek and Scott will attack it head-on, as a distraction for Stiles to start a creating a trap of mountain ash, and then Boyd and Isaac and Peter will step in; herding it in so Stiles can lock it up, that way Lydia can set it on fire with one of her chemical concoctions. And if after that it was still alive, Derek would finish it off, nice and easy, and they would all make it back to bed in a safe Beacon Hills.

And the plan would’ve worked too, if they had one Amarok to deal with, and not two.

They manage to trap the first one, but then another, its mate Stiles assumed, came out and attacked them, preventing them from killing the first; which is totally not fair because in everything Stiles read about them said they hunt _alone._

He’d kill for a completely accurate bestiary one of these days.

In the confusion, while the pack tries to deal with the newcomer, Stiles stumbles back into the circle of mountain ash. Containing the first Amarok. Well. _Shit._

 He lifts his bat and _swings_ when it lunges, but it literally shatters on its overgrown head. There’s only some minor damage that’s done; a second degree burn covering the left side of its face and some wood embedded in the skin. It’s not enough for a kill, and it’s definitely not enough to stop it from lunging for Stiles.

Before he knows it he’s under the monster, lying on his back on the grass, staring at massive, raised claws; _knowing_ he’s about to die. Before the thing can strike down, though, Peter is there, feral like Stiles had never seen, and _mauls it._

He claws out its eyes and throat in two slashes from behind; and there’s blood all over Stiles by now, but he doesn’t particularly care because it’s not _his_.

Even when it’s done, and the Amarok stops breathing, Peter doesn’t stop; he cuts into its chest with his claws with a slick, squelching sound, digs in, and pulls out its heart, very slow.

And Stiles doesn’t stop watching for a second, fascinated by it all; somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders if he’s just as psychotic as the wolf in front of him, killing for him.

Letting the body drop, lifeless, Peter turns to Stiles in a crouch, heart in hand. He offers it with a smile, a blue gleam in his eyes, and a bloodied face.

The laugh that tumbles out from Stiles’ lips is borderline hysterical – and what a sight he must be, doused in blood and laughing like a maniac.

But Stiles leans forward in his sitting position and shoots his hand out to grab Peter by the collar, pulling him in for a kiss that he hungrily reciprocates, a coppery taste on both their mouths.

When they pull apart, panting, Peter looks as if he’s glowing – perhaps from victory – but Stiles can’t help but laugh again. The man just offers the heart again, and Stiles takes it with a roll of his eyes.

“Did you open the box yet?” Peter asks, a hungry look growing in his eyes.

Stiles scrunches his face when he answers, “No offense Peter, but ripped out hearts and dead animals are sucky gifts. No, I take it back – take all the offense you want, but I’m not opening another box from you if it contains anything dead. Or bleeding.”

Peter doesn’t look offended though, instead his face _beams_.

“Open it when we get to your home,” he says, eyes twinkling.

Stiles raises his brows at the ‘we,’ but before he can say that he’s not that easy, he’s being smacked on the back of the head by an angry strawberry blonde girl.

“Don’t mind me interrupting your public sex kink, but we could have actually used your help back there,” she fumes.

Stiles splutters, and his face would definitely be red now if the blood on his face hadn’t made it so already.

“I apologize,” Peter says sickly sweet, “but do please watch your hands around Stiles, least you regret it.”

Lydia just narrows her eyes with pursed lips. Uh-oh, Stiles can see her nostrils flaring too. She puts her hands out in front of her, as if showing them off to Peter, before taking them and rubbing them harshly all over Stiles’ face and rubbing her knuckles in his hair. When she’s done she snaps her fingers in front of Peter’s face and spins on her heel, sashaying off to where the rest of the pack is uncomfortably observing.

“ _Fearless,_ ” Stiles praises, looking dazed and disheveled.

“Volatile,” Peter says, glaring at her back as she walks off.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Stiles scoffs, getting to his feet and offering a hand to help Peter up even though he probably doesn’t need it.

Peter takes it anyway with a smile, just because he can.

 

\---

 

When Stiles is home and clean, he takes one look at the red box on his desk and gives in to the temptation.

Upon opening it, he flushes at the sight of a single pair of silver cuffs and a small bottle of lube. Under them, is a traditional, inaccurately shaped paper cutout of a heart, with the words, “You’re Mine” written in a neat, bold cursive. 

“What do you say, Stiles?”

Gasping, he flails as he spins around, towards the sound of the voice. He finds Peter sprawled out provocatively on his bed, leering. Peter glances at the cuffs in Stiles’ hands and grins, making a show to cross his arms behind his head, and leans back.

Oh.

Oh, _yes_.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title: WHAT'S IN THE BOOOOX.
> 
> Dear God I need sleep; else I'll be hearin Brad Pitt's voice all morning.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Also, I apologize for any and all mistakes. It's nearly five in the morning, please forgive me.


End file.
